After ugly mushrooms started nosing out of my tallest houseplant’s soil, yellow and translucent and unnaturally leggy, I thought maybe I was finally done with growing and caring for anything that wasn’t me. If the responsibility of the weekly watering, the repotting and the shaking off deadness on my three houseplants didn’t get to me, this fungus would. Down to the basement with them where one of my neighbors would surely make room for them. Or to the compost bin.
But then I remembered how I first thought of my Dracaena as a roommate as I settled into living alone after 40 years of marriage, how the tiny succulent my dear friend gave me as a housewarming gift now fills my sill, how kind the florist was who sold me the cascade of waxy-leaved fronds.
Not yet, I said to myself just like I used to say about my marriage, always one ugly reveal away from divorce.
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